a composition by Pessoa that I have adapted, so that it can be recited as a narrator’s voice, in something written by me.
There are people dirty with fate, like me, who do not stray from the triviality of everyday life, for the same charm they feel for their impotence. Thus, I take my fate for a walk, which advances without me advancing, and my time that proceeds without me proceeding. It is enough for me that my cell has windows behind the bars, and I write on the glass, on the dust of the necessary my name in capital letters, the daily signature of my contract with death. But those who live like me do not die; they end, wither, cease to vegetate.